veR 



^AY 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



^j> JHarp e. -^Slaie* 



POEMS. i6mo, gilt top, |i.23. 
VERSES ALONG THE WAY. i6mo. 
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO. 

Boston and New York. 



VERSES ALONG THE WAY 



BY 



MARY ELIZABETH BLAKE 



AUTHOR OF POEMS, 



ON THE WING, 



RAMBLING TALKS, 



"MEXICO," "a summer HOLIDAY IN EUROPE," ETC., ETC. 
I 





CT 16 '890 , ^ 



BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 

1890 



Copyright, 1890, 
By MARY E. BLAKE. 

All rights reserved. 



The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A. 
Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Company. 



To 
MY DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER. 



CONTENTS. 



ALONG THE WAY. 

PAGE 

A Greeting ii 

June 14 

An Oriole 15 

In the Mountains. 

I. A Breezy Day 16 

II. Under the Pines 18 

III. A Mountain Sabbath .... 18 

Discordance 20 

On the Sea. 

I. First Evening 22 

II. A Calm Day 23 

III. Storm 24 

IV. Homeward Bound 25 

In May Time 27 

Avenged 29 

The Equinoctial 31 

In a City Street 33 

At Twenty-One 35 

The Dawning o' the Year 38 

In Midwinter 42 

Transition 44 



iv CONTENTS. 

Daisies 45 

A Birthday 48 

Two Festivals 50 

The Dark o' the Year 51 

Spring's Awaking 53 

At a Nameless Soldier's Grave . . . .55 

A Litany of Flowers 58 

Wendell Phillips 59 

How Ireland Answered 62 

Decoration Day 67 

Women of the Revolution . . . . 71 
For the Two Hundred and Fiftieth Anniver- 
sary OF the Charitable Irish Society . 79 

A Christmas Carol 81 

John Boyle O'Reilly 82 

SONNETS AND EPIGRAMS. 

Easter Day 87 

Rain in the Mountains 88 

Isabella of Castile 89 

In Mid Ocean 91 

A Beethoven Symphony 92 

Palm Sunday at Sea 93 

November 94 

Justin McCarthy 95 

To One Beloved 96 

The Gift of Vision 97 

Morning in the City 98 

Hostages 99 

Nantasket 100 

In Answer ......... ioi 



CONTENTS. V 

Salve 1 102 

Contradiction 103 

Sequence 104 

Kismet 105 

AT THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. 

The Little Sailor Kiss 109 

The Name of Mary iii 

A Song without Words . . . . « 112 

Held in Sight 114 

The First Step 116 

To A Little Lad 119 

A Valentine 121 

The Wee Thing 123 

Lost 125 

The First Battle 127 

IN LIGHTER MOOD. 

An Enigma 131 

A Character Sketch 133 

CONSTANTIA InCONSTANS I35 

With a Silken Purse 136 

Caf6 Noir 137 

To A VERY Learned Lady with a Knitting 

Basket 138 

On a Thermometer 140 

A Conundrum 141 

With a Four-Leaved Clover .... 142 

With a Picture of Lorelei 143 

Philosophy 144 

Indian Summer 145 



VI 



CONTENTS. 



A Definition 146 

A Photograph 147 

March 149 

A GROUP OF MEXICAN POEMS. 



Guadalupe {Migtiel Ulloa) 
Elena [Augiistin Lazo) 
Rosario {Manuel Flores) . 
JoSEFiNA (Lzus Alba) 
Valentina {Miguel Ulloa) 
Amelia {Aurelio Garay) 
Concha {Ltcis G. Ortiz) . 
Maria {M. C.) 
Virginia {Aurelio Garay) 
An Answer {Miguel Ulloa) 



15s 
156 

157 

158 

159 
160 
161 
162 

164 



ALONG THE WAY. 



A GREETING. 

Ireland ! Mother unknown, 
Sitting alone by the water, 
Lift up your eyes to your own, 

Stretch out your arms to your daughter ! 
Many and many a day have I longed for your 

green robe's splendor. 
Your eyes of the deep sea gray, your strong 

love patient and tender ; 
For the croon of the welcoming voice, and the 

smile half joy and half sadness. 
Soul of my soul rejoice, for this is the hour 
of thy gladness ! 

Sure if I never had heard 

What land had given me birth. 
And cradled the spirit's bird 

On its first weak flight to earth ; 
If I never had heard the name of thy sorrow 

and strength divine, 
Or felt in my pulses the flame of the fire they 
had caught from thine. 



12 A GREETING. 

I would know by this rapture alone that 
sweeps through me now like a flood, 

That the Irish skies were my own, and my 
blood was the Irish blood ! 

Proud did I hold my race. 

Yet knew not what pride might dare; 
Fair did I deem thy face. 
But never one-half so fair; 
Like a dream with deep happiness fraught 

that some happier dawn makes true, 
Nothing was glad in my thought but gladdens 

still more in you — 
From ivied tower and wall, and primrose pale 

on the lea, 
To vales where the bright streams call to the 
lilting bird in the tree. 

How can I frame the thought 

That sets all my soul aglow! 
How can I speak as I ought 
The longing that moves me so ! 
My comrades laugh like a boy whose heart to 

pleasure is stirred. 
But my heart is weeping with joy while my 
lips speak never a word; 



A GREETING. 1 3 

Here where the green hills start from the 
breast of the deep blue water, 

Ireland ! land of my heart, stretch out your 
arms to your daughter! 



JUNE. 

March is a trumpet flower, 

And April a crocus wild ; 
May is a harebell slender 

With the clear blue eyes of a child; 
July is the cup of a tulip 

Where gold and crimson meet j 
And August a tiger lily, 

Tawny with passion and heat ; 
But Thou art the rose of the world, 

Precious, and glowing, and sweet. 

Fair is the flush of the dawning 

Over the face of the sky; 
Sweet is the tangle of music 

From wild birds fluttering by; 
Brilliant the glow of the sunset. 

And graceful the bound of the deer; 
Glad is the laugh of the children. 

Ringing like joy bells clear; 
But what can compare with thy beauty 

O red, red rose of the year ! 



AN ORIOLE. 

A DAZZLE of yellow, a quiver of wings, 

A flash like a beam from the sun's rays 

shaken ; 
And high on the tree tops an oriole sings, 
Dizzy with gladness, like hearts afloat 
On an ocean of love in a fairy boat, 
While the joy bells of life unto bliss awaken. 

Only an instant, and then away 

Like the flight of a thought through the sum- 
mer weather; 

But still and forever the song shall stay ; 

To wake in my soul through the winter's 
night 

The rapturous thrill of that swift delight, 

When it and the oriole sang together. 



IN THE MOUNTAINS. 
I. 

A BREEZY DAY. 

The day was dark and glum as when 
Gay youth sees age advancing ; 

There came a wee breeze up the glen 
And set the leaves a-dancing. 

It lilted to the nodding grass, 
It whistled through the rushes, 

It hustled all the bonny buds 
Among the bonny bushes. 

It tossed the mists above the hills, 
It pulled the clouds asunder, 

And let the shining sky above 
Look down in blue-eyed wonder. 

Off flew the frown from Nature's face, 
And smiles began to wimple ; 

The little birds laughed loud and shrill 
Above the pool's blue dimple. 



IN THE MOUNTAINS. I'J 

Care flew as fly the mists of dawn 
Before the sun's light glancing, — 

And all because that saucy breeze 
Had set the green leaves dancing. 

So blithely glanced their twinkling feet 

In such a maze of gladness, 
So loud the piping winds and sweet, 

That oft in hours of sadness 

When weary falls the winter night 

Upon some lost endeavor, 
Some memory dear of past delight, 

Some fair dream gone forever, 

My soul afloat on fancy's wings 

Shall seek this spot entrancing 
And hear the breeze that pipes and thrills 

And see the green leaves dancing. 



l8 IN THE MOUNTAINS. 

11. 

UNDER THE PINES. 

When the Winter's rime 
Clogs the wheels of time 
And the earth's warm blood grows thin and 

gray, 
Death doth conquer life on sea and shore, — 

Summer being o'er, — 
Only for the sunshine do we pray. 

When the Summer's rune 

Sets the world in tune. 
Gives it voice for speech and eyes for sight, — 
God ! we thank Thee ! — comes a time at last, — 

Winter being past, — 
When Thy shadows gladden as Thy light. 



III. 

A MOUNTAIN SABBATH. 

Here rests the Sabbath of the soul. 
On this far-climbing, tranquil height ! 

Where waves of sound through pine boughs roll 
Like organ tones, now sad, now bright, 



IN THE MOUNTAINS. 1 9 

Uplifted to the warmth and glow 

Of some new world of peace and love, 
The deep blue sparkling sea below, 

The deep blue wondrous sky above ! 
Across the far horizon's rim 

The purple-hooded mountains stand, 
To swell the mighty voiceless hymn 

That rises from the silent land. 
No sight, no sound of earth's unrest, 

Of passion's fret, of sordid care ; 
The holiest only and the best 

Can rise into this purer air. 

O fruitful hours of idleness, 

Whose rich repose our poor toil shames, 
With all diviner thoughts possess 

The lives long bent to lowlier aims ! 
For sure, with eyes made clear to see 

Earth's finer bliss and pure delights, 
God's heaven of love must nearer be, 

His voice more clear, upon the heights. 



DISCORDANCE. 

Once the sky was dark and drear, 
Mourning for the dying year ; 
Ocean shrieked in bitter pain 
Under lashes of the rain ; 
Toothed rocks rose black and thin, — 
Rakes to draw dead men within ; 
Cries like mocking demons passed 
Through the howling of the blast : 
Yet thy face was sweet to see. 
Since thou brought'st my love to me, 
O fair, fair sea ! 

Once the rose of dawn bloomed fair 
In the dreaming summer air ; 
Sleeping waters stirred and smiled, 
Dimpled like a waking child ; 
Little waves with tender speech 
Kissed the white feet of the beach ; 



DISCORDANCE. 21 

And the cooing of the birds 
Filled the air like happy words. 
God ! that then his eyes should be 
Closed forever under thee, 
O false, false sea ! 



ON THE SEA. 
I. 

FIRST EVENING. 

Gray in the fading skies ; 
Gray in the deep sea under; 

And dark on its wide white wings 
The good ship quivers and springs, 
Dipping into the night and cleaving the waves 
asunder, 
As a sea-gull circles and flies. 

Loneliness half, and deep peace, 

Twins of the silence draw near me; 

Soft as the cooing of birds 

Kisses and lovingest words 

From lips that I touched last night, come 

through the dark to cheer me. 

And ere their whisperings cease, 

Blend with their lingering tone 
Voices and lips more tender, 



ON THE SEA. 23 

That long in the churchyard sod 
Have known the sweet twilight of God, 
And now, looking backward to earth, from 
Heaven's more wonderful splendor, 
Are speaking to me alone. 



II. 

A CALM DAY. 

Where hath the world departed, 
With all its envy and woe, its moil and its 
care \ 
The grief of its sons broken-hearted. 
The tear of its sorrow, the wail of despair } 
Here like a child on the breast of its mother 

naught Cometh to me 
But peace and rest, peace and rest, and the 
infinite joy of the sea. 

Well have I known the deep sadness, 
That stains with shadow and ruth the garment 
of life, 

The echo that mocks at its gladness. 
The weight of its sorrow, the noise of its strife ; 



24 ON THE SEA. 

Nought of its bitterness, nought of its wail- 
ing I hear or I see, 

But peace and rest, peace and rest, and the 
infinite joy of the sea. 

But a rapture of Hght in the heavens, 
A glow that speaks to the heart like promise 
of dawn ; 
A thrill of wide freedom, that leavens 
The being with sense of oppression withdrawn 
Sweet, as if nearer the portals of glory the 

soul floated free 
In peace and rest, peace and rest, and the 
infinite joy of the sea. 



III. 

STORM. 

Whither, O God, hath evanished 

Thy near brooding sense of delight! 
The calm of sweet silence where banished, 
The peace of the night, — 
Only gray mist like a shroud tossed low on a 

rain-beaten grave ; 
And the flail of the wind smiting loud, and the 
answering roar of the wave ! 



ON THE SEA. 2$ 

Beyond, a blind terror of fate, 

A conflict of fear and of doubt, 
A clamor of darkness and hate. 
And the sky blotted out ! 
Beneath, but the quavering cry of timbers that 

strain through the wrack. 
And stealthy fierce waves bounding high like 
sleuthhounds of death on our track ! 



IV. 

HOMEWARD BOUND. 

The grime of the land falls away like a clod 

from the heel of the ship ; 
The deep sapphire cup of the sea holds its 

wine of delight to her lip ; 
And she quaffs of its strength and its joy as 
she bounds over mountains of foam, 
And speeds like a bird in its flight 
Through courses of day and of night 
To the headlands of Home ! 

O world of our dreams, as you die in the haze 

of the sunset's red gold ! 
O blue of the brave Tuscan sky ! O glory 

and grandeur of old ! 



26 ON THE SEA. 

Shrines of saints, tombs of kings, all the light 

that illumines the earth's wondrous tome, 

How ye fade as a torch dim and burned. 

Once the eyes of the soul have been turned 

To the headlands of Home ! 



IN MAY TIME. ' 

In May time ! In May time 

'Gin little leaves to dance; 
The apple bloom and cherry 
Make all the orchards merry, 

And under sheath of flowery wreath 

Doth thorn bush hide his lance. 

In May time ! In May time 

The little birds do call, 
And sweet their shrill pipes ringing 
Set all the world a-singing, 
While gossip gay and roundelay 
Bring joy to one and all. 

In May time! In May time. 

My heart, and can it be 
That thou, with greater power 
For joy than bird or flower, 
Doth frozen rest within my breast 



28 IN MAY TIME. 

And from the sunshine flee 
And feel the fret of winter yet 
Because one frowns on thee ? 
Alack! And woe is me! 



AVENGED ! 

When thou wert here, he thought it hard to 

shun thee ; 
He feared lest some time Fate should bring 

thee near, 
So deep he felt the wrong that he had done 

thee, — 
While thou wert here. 

Now thou art dead, his heavy heart grows 

lighter. 
The strain of fear that wrung the soul is 

fled; 
His sun of life grows ever bright and brighter, 
Now thou art dead. 

Ah fool and blind ! Dividing seas might 

thunder 
Beneath the stars to keep his pathway clear, 
A world obtrude to hold your ways asunder. 
While thou wert here ; 



30 AVENGED. 

But now, nor depth nor space can aught avail 

him; 
By night, by day, while time and life go on, 
Soul unto soul thy spirit shall assail him, 
Now thou art gone. 



THE EQUINOCTIAL. 

Through the long night the surges roared 
In hoarse, wild heat, against the rocks 
Whose flinty horns their white sides gored, 
Then came the Equinox! 

No joy was in the face of day. 
The air was full of wrath and strife, 
The pall of cloud rack torn away 
Had more of death than life. 

Swift from its stormy grasp is hurled 
The mighty sheaf of thunderous spears ; 
While, hushed in dread, a silent world 
Its shout of triumph hears. 

Sullen, with deep and lowering brow, 
Fierce foam of wrath upon its Hps, 
And strong breath smiting keel and prow 
The quivering, doomed ships, 



32 THE EQUINOCTIAL. 

The sunset meets its eyes' wild light 
Unquenched amid its tangled locks ; 
God help their need who meet to-night 
The awful Equinox! 



IN A CITY STREET. 

Nay! think not Spring is all for you 
Because amid your woodland bowers 

The torch of life flames up anew 
In maple tips and springing flowers, 

Because your wide horizon dips 
Beyond a world of beauty glowing, 

And earth through all her being sips 
The wine of gladness, sparkling, flowing. 

For us too Spring hath spent her store; 

In all her joy are we partakers, 
Although the plot beside our door 

Has fewer feet than yours has acres. 

The slim green lances of the grass. 
The few pale crocus buds upspringing, 

The wandering birds that pause, and pass, 
To fresher fields their swift way winging ; 



34 /^ A CITY STREET. 

The radiant gleam of heaven's bkie 
Above the narrowing rooftree's border, 

The early sunbeam creeping through 
Like shining spear of silent warder ; 

The moon that comes in silver state 
And fills the place with royal splendor, 

The fading light that lingers late 

To meet the night in wooing tender; 

The subtle sense that fills the air 
With some divine unspoken glory, — 

All these are ours ; nor can you share 
With deeper peace the old sweet story 

Than I, with this small sod that tells 
Of joy and life again upspringing, 

And this sweet chime of crocus bells 
To airs of heaven set a-ringing. 



AT TWENTY-ONE. 

The Youth who daily farther from the east 
Must travel, still is Nature's priest, 

And by the vision splendid 

Is on his way attended ; 
At length the Man perceives it die away, 
And fade into the light of common day. 

Wordsworth. 

And so, if Wordsworth's song be true, — 
And if he knew not, who shall know it, - 

The common day has dawned for you, 
That comes at last to sage and poet. 

The clouds of glory torn and spent. 
The heavenly light behind them faded, 

The man must pitch his moving tent 
In lands by care and sorrow shaded. 

Believe it not, O heart of mine ! 

The psalm of life rings truer, clearer; 
Beyond the glow and glory shine. 

And every step but brings them nearer. 



36 AT TWENTY-ONE. 

Keep for thy star, as still of old, 

The love that makes of mankind brothers, 
And hold within that heart of gold, 

So harsh for self, so kind for others. 

The blindest soul must catch the light 
From passing marvels' regal splendor ; 

Be thine the eyes to read aright 

Earth's common beauty glad and tender. 

Be thine that holier sense that heeds 

The hidden harmonies of duty, 
And finds, to fill its daily needs, 

God's constant spring of love and beauty. 

So heaven shall lie about thy way; 

Not all unknown, as mid the blisses 
Of childhood's short unconscious day. 

Whose loftiest sky was smiles and kisses, 

But pure, serene, o'erarching all 

The toil of life with something finer, 

Till from the ore the dross shall fall 
And virgin gold reward the miner. 



AT TWENTY-ONE. 37 

O not behind the heavenly shore 

The psalm of life rings truer, clearer ; 

The light, the glory, is before, 
And each strong step but brings it nearer. 



THE DAWNING O' THE YEAR. 

All ye ^vho love the Springtime — and who 

but loves it well 
When the little birds do sing, and the buds 

begin to swell ! — 
Think not ye ken its beauty or know its face 

so dear, 
Till ye look upon old Ireland, in the dawning 

o' the year ! 

For where in all the earth is there any joy like 

this ; 
A\'hen the skylark sings and soars like a spirit 

into bliss. 
While the thrushes in the bush strain their 

small brown mottled throats. 
Making all the air rejoice with their clear and 

mellow notes : 

And the blackbird on the hedge in the golden 

sunset glow 
Trills with saucy, side-tipped head to the bonny 

nest below ; 



1 



THE DAWNING O' THE YEAR 39 

And the dancing wind slips down through the 

leaves of the boreen, 
And all the world rejoices in the wearing o' 

the green. 

For 't is green, green, green, where the ruined 
towers are gray, 

And it 's green, green, green, all the happy 
night and day ; 

Green of leaf and green of sod, green of ivy 
on the wall, 

And the blessed Irish shamrock with the fair- 
est green of all. 

There the primrose breath is sweet, and the 

yellow gorse is set 
A crown of shining gold on the headlands 

brown and wet ; 
Not a nook of all the land but the daisies 

make to glow, 
And the happy violets pray in their hidden cells 

below. 

And it 's there the earth is merry, Uke a young 

thing newly made 
Running wild amid the blossoms in the field 

and in the glade, 



40 THE DAWNING O' THE YEAR. 

Babbling ever into music under skies with soft 

clouds piled, 
Like the laughter and the tears in the blue 

eyes of a child. 

But the green, green, green, O 't is that is blithe 

and fair ! 
In the fells and on the hills, gay and gladsome 

as the air, 
Lying warm above the bog, floating brave on 

crag and glen, 
Thrusting forty banners high where another 

land has ten. 

Sure Mother Nature knows of her sore and 
heavy grief. 

And thus with soft caress would give solace 
and relief ; 

Would fold her close in loveliness to keep her 
from the cold, 

And clasp the mantle o'er her heart with em- 
eralds and gold. 

So ye who love the Springtime — and who but 

loves it well 
When the little birds do sing, and the buds 

begin to swell ! — 



THE DAWNING O' THE YEAR. 4 1 

Think not ye ken its beauty or know its face 

so dear 
Till ye meet it in old Ireland in the dawning 

o' the year! 



IN MIDWINTER. 

The pine and the oak ! 

The pine and the oak ! 

Never in summer a voice they woke 

Of singing or sighing my heart within ; 
Dazzled and dazed by the sunlight's gold, 
And dance of the grass over hill and wold, 
And breezes that pressed with such petulant 
din, — 
I could not wait for the words they spoke ; 
Nor look for the dryads that wander and 

moan, 
Left in the shade of the green wood alone ; 
Thinking with weeping and wringing of hands, 
Of the glad lost time in the fair Greek lands. 
When faun and satyr together met 

In royal sport under palms and larches. 
And the mystic light of a day long set 

Pierced through the gloom of the forest 
arches. 



IN MIDWINTER. 43 

But now in the snow and frost, 

When joy of the eyes is lost, 
And under the dull sky gray and low, 
The wraith of the dead year wanders slow, — 
Sweet, as a song without words. 
The flight and the music of birds. 
Glad leaves set to a June day's tuning. 
Echo of dreams in a sultry nooning, 
Whisper of blooms in woodlands hiding, 
Scent of the rose on soft airs riding, 

Comes to the tranced ear. 

Melody soft and clear. 
And visions of beauty rare and tender : 
Dian enwrapped in her maiden splendor 
Turning young Acteon's gaze on death ; 
Joyous Bacchantes with lusty breath 
Dancing before the wine God's car ; 
Or shy pale nymphs in the aisles afar, 
Smiling behind their locks, half hid 
From ardent eyes of some daring lover, — 
These are what fancy, unforbid, 
In shade of the pine and the oak discover. 



TRANSITION. 

The golden woods shine like a glory ; the air 

is as balm ; 
The land is as fair as a story ; the waves sing 

a psalm ; 
Like censers of incense the pungent swift odors 

ascend ; 
And far in the distant horizon the sea and 

sky blend ; 
We know not where Heaven beginneth, or 

where Earth may end. 

Dear Heart! read the joy and the sweetness; 

endeavor to see 
The lesson in all its completeness that God 

giveth thee : 
So full of the light of the spirit the body 

should glow, 
When nearing its time of departure, that we 

could not know 
Which step crossed the threshold of Heaven 

and left us below ! 



DAISIES. 

Daisies ! 
Low in the grass and high in the clover, 
Starring the green earth over and over, 
Now into white waves tossing and breaking, 
Like a foaming sea when the wind is waking, 
Now standing upright, tall and slender, 
Showing their deep heart's golden splendor, 

Daintily bending. 

Airily lending 
Garlands of flowers for earth's adorning, 
Fresh with the bloom of a summer morning: 
High on the slope, low in the hollow. 
Where eye can reach or foot can follow, 
Shining with innocent fearless faces 
Out of the depths of lonely places. 

Till the glad heart sings their praises, 
Here are the daisies. 

The daisies. 

See them ebbing and flowing, 

Like tides with the full moon going; 



46 DAISIES. 

Spreading their generous largess free 
For hand to touch and eye to see, 
In dust of the wayside growing, 
On rock-ribbed upland blowing, 
By meadow brooklets glancing, 
On barren fields a-dancing, 
Till the world forgets to burrow and grope, 
And rises aloft on the wings of hope; 
Oh ! of all posies, 
Lilies or roses, 
Sweetest or fairest, 
Richest or rarest, 
That earth in its joy to heaven upraises. 
Give me the daisies ! 

Why ? For they glow with the spirit of youth, 
Their beautiful eyes have the glory of truth, 
Down before all their rich bounty they fling. 
Free to the beggar, and free to the king ; 
Loving, they stoop to the lowliest ways. 
Joyous, they brighten the dreariest days ; 
Under the fringe of their raiment they hide 
Scars the gray winter had opened so wide ; 

Freely and brightly. 

Who can count lightly 
Gifts with such generous ardor proffered, 



DAISIES. 47 

Tokens of love from such full hearts offered ; 
Or look without passion of joy and delight 
At pastures, star covered from morning till 

night, 
When the sunshiny field ablaze is 
With daisies. 

Daisies ! 

Your praise is 
That you are like maidens, as maidens should 

be, 
Winsome in freshness and wholesome to see ; 
Gifted with beauty and joy to the eye ; 
Head lifted daintily, yet not too high ; 
Sweet with humility ; radiant in love ; 
Generous, too, as the sunshine above ; 
Swaying with sympathy, tenderly bent 
On hiding the hurt, and on heaHng the rent ; 
Innocent, looking the world in the face ; 
Fearless, with nature's own innocent grace ; 
Full of sweet goodness, yet simple in art ; 
White in the soul and pure gold in the heart; 
Ah ! like unto you should all maidenhood be. 
Gladsome to know and most gracious to see, — 

Like you, my daisies! 



A BIRTHDAY. 

A SCORE of years! O child beloved and fair, 
Since thy glad pinions in swift upward 

flight 
Darkened for us the rosy morning light, 
And earth grew empty, — for thou wert not 
there, 

A score of years ! At manhood's threshold 
stand 
The little ones who touched with bated 

breath 
Thy lips all pallid from the kiss of death, 
The frozen beauty of thy dimpled hand. 

But thee, nor time nor change can rude assail ; 
Upon thy face the baby smile doth rest, 
The fadeless lilies shine upon thy breast, 

And on thy brow a glory rare and pale. 



A BIRTHDAY. 49 

O wondrous Death ! thou dealest sharpest pain ! 

More swift than hfe thou snatchest youth 
away; 

But while life farther bears it, day by day, 
Thy hand, grown kind, doth give it back again ! 



TWO FESTIVALS. 

When in the June time nature woke 

To sunshine and joy and sweet surrender, 
Fragance of bloom on the orchard slope, 
Passion of love in the roses' splendor, 
Wooed by the voices of bird and of bee. 
Whisper of tree-tops and murmur of sea, 
Earth the maid became Earth the wife j 
Gayly she married her bridegroom Life, — 
And the green leaves danced at the wedding. 

Now in the dull November day 

Sunshine and song have flown together, 
The rose is dead, and the bird away 

In far lands seeking the golden weather ; 
With clashing of boughs in the windy lane, 
With sigh of the wind and sob of the rain. 
Wrinkled and gray and scant o' breath, 
The widowed Earth marries her bridegroom 

Death, — 
And the dead leaves dance at the weddin<2:. 



THE DARK O' THE YEAR. 

Aye, but the day is dour, lad, 

Wi' the chill wind moanin' by; 
Snaw on the fell an' moor, lad, 

Snaw in the cauld, gray sky; 
Short is the sun's dim shinin', 

Lang is the darksome night, 
Wi' the sheeverin dawn from its bosom blawn. 

Like a wraith thro' the gruesome night ! 

*T is a time o' trouble an' dearth, lad, 

Cauld is the sun's warm breath. 
And the guid brown cheek o' the airth, lad, 

Is wan wi' the white o' death. 
There 's never a song in the bushes. 

There 's never a lilt in the breeze. 
An' the greetin' rain, like a soul in pain, 

Gaes sobbin' amang the trees. 

But the fire on the hearth is high, lad, 
An' the ingle nook is warm ; 



52 THE DARK a THE YEAR, 

There 's a promise o' springtime nigh, lad, 

To brighten the darkest storm. 
'Tis little we heed its skelpin', 

When the heart is gay within, 
For the auld heads bent in a fine content, 

An' the laughin' bairnies' din. 

They ca' it the dark o' the year, lad, 

But little they know who speak! 
When the speerit is glad an' clear, lad, 

Wha cares if the land be bleak? 
But I could tell of a dawnin', 

As fair as the smile o' God ; 
When the hawthorn spray for the brow o' the 
May 

Was glintin' above the sod. 

When the lark like an arrow o' song, lad, 

Was piercin' the dazzle o' sky, 
An' the sweet air sparklin' an' strong, lad. 

Laughed low as it floated by. 
An' a dead face there in the corner, 

Changed a' life's glory to fear, — 
O wae be the day ! And wae be the day ! 

For that was the dark o' the year ! 



SPRING'S AWAKING. 

The wind is chill in the street ; 
As it sighs, the bare boughs fret; 
Grime of the mire and the wet 
Hinder the weary feet ; 
But high in the purer air,— 
High as the heart's desire — 
In a passion of longing and fire 
A bird sings sweet and fair, — 
While a sunbeam, cheery and strong, 
Answers the joy of the song, 
And Spring is coming. 

Soul, thou art sore distrest ! 

By grief and the shadow of death, 
By cold of the winter's breath. 

Still is thy pulse opprest ! 

Lift up thine eyes to see, 
Lift up thine ears to hear, — 
For the spirit of life is near 



54 SPRING'S AWAKING. 

And its voice is calling to thee. 
Over the graveyard sod 
Shineth the smile of God, 

And Spring is coming. 



AT A NAMELESS SOLDIER'S GRAVE. 

Unto the unknown dead ! 
Unto each honored head 
Soft pillowed now in peacefulness most deep, 
That maketh holy ground where'er they sleep; 
Above whose rest the loving south winds hover, 
And bees hum loud amid the brave red clover ; 
Who for their country fought. 
Loyal in heart and thought 
However led by alien force astray, 
Weave we a wreath to-day. 

Fame hath its trumpet tone 
For names long made its own ; 
Poets have sung and kindly eyes bewept 
The golden promise from earth's harvest swept 
Ere yet the grain had ripened, and the calm 
Of well-won peace distilled its holy balm. 
But for the unknown host, 
None hath made plaint or boast. 
Who in the depth of war's ensanguined flood. 
Found their baptism of blood. 



56 AT A NAMELESS SOLDIER'S GRAVE. 

Yet did their strong arms hold 
Treasure more dear than gold 
For the fair land on which their true hearts 

shed 
Joy, love, and life, that she might lift her 

head. 
In her rich coffers shines no purer gem 
Than the brave faith that nerved and 
strengthened them, 
When in her anguish torn. 
Stricken and all forlorn, 
From her deep need she gave that bitter cry 
And they came forth, — to die. 

Nor in the glorious way 

Waiting her feet to-day, — 
Robed in white honor, proved among her peers. 
Guarded in peace more strong than sword and 

spears, — 
Let from her grateful memory be cast 
The nameless heroes of her golden past. 
Whose bones on many a field forgotten lie 

Under the summer sky. 

But as they make more fair 
The brave earth smiling there, 



AT A NAMELESS SOLDIER'S GRAVE. 57 

Joyous with life and rich in happy bloom, 
So in our souls their spirits shall find room 
With all glad thought of worth and high re- 
nown, 
Of love, and trust, and lofty honor's crown, 
Of freedom's kindling breath, 
Of strength that conquers death, — 
The while we sing with proud uplifted head 
Unto the Unknown Dead! 



A LITANY OF FLOWERS.^ 

O Flower of Faith ! Thou Passion bloom up- 
springing 
Amid the dust of lowliness and pain, 
The joy of life to death and sadness bringing, 
Our eyes are dim; make thou the pathway 
plain. 

O Flower of Hope! Fair Lily of the garden, 
Whose leaves no touch of soil or time can fret. 
Of Heaven's dear peace the sentinel and war- 
den, 
Let thy light shine above earth's vague regret. 

O Flower of Love ! Red Rose, whose mystic 

beauty 
Hath so made glad our fallen nature's state. 
Lend thy sweet breath to teach the bliss of 

duty. 
And lift our souls to where His glories wait. 
1 Feast of the Annunciation. 



WENDELL PHILLIPS. 

Glory, not grief, our theme to-day ! 

The record of his Hfe to sing 
Who brought to clothe our common clay 

The royal mantle of the king. 
Glory, not grief! The heart is cold 

That drinks of sorrow's bitter cup, 
When like the prophet saint of old, 

God's fiery steeds bear heroes up. 

Some tombs are altars. On them flame 

The beacon lights of sacrifice. 
Like stars fair set in sky of fame 

To light the way for seeking eyes. 
Beside them lie the conqueror's bays. 

The patriot's sword, the poet's pen, 
Like kindling sparks to set ablaze 

The fire divine in hearts of men. 

Round thy dear name, O thou most blessed 
Because most loved ! what memories throng 

Now that thy virtues stand confessed, 

By death's pale light made doubly strong. 



6o WENDELL PHILLIPS. 

Thou Bayard of our craven age ! 

When even honor stoops to greed, 
How fair the white, unsullied page 

Thy record leaves for man to read ! 

Born in the purple ; placed beyond 

The cares that lowlier fortune bears, 
What wiser insight, deep and fond. 

Led thee to mate thy life with theirs ? 
Thy soul was like an angel's wing 

To stir the troubled pool of doubt. 
Till Bondage, bathing in the spring, 

Drew healing grace of Freedom out. 

Twofold thy nature : one was shown 

To those oppressed of creed or race, 
Who knew thy tenderness alone, 

And saw the Saviour in thy face ; 
While one, in stern and awful guise, 

Confronted the embattled throng. 
And with the lightning of thine eyes 

Struck down the armored might of wrong. 

If, sometime, on the upward track. 
When frosty peril nipped the soul 

And Prudence called her warriors back, 
Thy braver spirit stormed the goal, 



WENDELL PHILLIPS. 6 1 

Smote giant Danger, branch and root, 
And spurred thy lagghig comrades on, — 

Shall we, who share the victory's fruit. 
Dare question how the heights were won ? 

The winged arrows of thy speech. 

Barbed with sharp point of finest scorn. 
That tore their way through gap and breach, 

And forced a path for hopes forlorn ; 
The broken fetter of the slave. 

The right of manhood to be free — 
What nobler signs could make thy grave 

A sacred shrine to Liberty ? 

On thy dead brow we place the crown, 

For words made living by thy breath ; 
For fearless thought ; for high renown 

Of conquest from the jaws of death ; 
For this is Fame ! But to thy bier 

Come gifts, all other gifts above, — 
The freedman's prayer, the poor man's tear, 

The Nation's stricken cry of love \ 

1884. 



HOW IRELAND ANSWERED. 

A TRADITION OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION. 

Wheresoe'er in song or story- 
Runs one theme of ancient glory, 
Wheresoe'er in word or action lives one spark 
for freedom's shrine, 
Read it out before the people. 
Ring it loud in street and steeple, 
Till the hearts of those who listen thrill be- 
neath its power divine ! 

And as lives immortal, gracious. 
The great deed of young Horatius, 
Or that gauntlet of defiance flung by Tell in 
Gessler's face. 
So for him who claims as sireland 
The green hills of holy Ireland, 
Let the speech of old John Parnell speak its 
lesson to his race. 



HO IV IRELAND ANSWERED. 63 

'T was in days when sore tormenting 
With a malice unrelenting, 
England pushed her youngest step-child past 
endurance into strife ; 
Till, with weak, frail hands uplifted, 
With but hate and courage gifted. 
She began the desperate struggle that should 
end in death or life. 

Came the fourth long year of fighting; 
Want and woe and famine biting 
Nipped the heartstrings of the "Rebels," 
chilled their pulse with cold despair; 
Southern swamp and Northern mountain 
Fed full streams to war's red fountain. 
And the gloom of hopeless struggle darkened 
all the heavy air ; 

Lincoln's troops in wild disorder 
Beaten on the Georgian border ; 
Fivescore craft off Norfolk harbor scuttled 
deep beneath the tide; 
Hessian thieves in swaggering sallies 
Raiding fair New England valleys; 
While before Savannah's trenches brave Pulaski, 
lighting, died; 



64 HOW IRELAND ANSWERED. 

Indian allies warwhoops raising 
Where Wyoming's roofs were blazing; 
Clinton, full of pomp and bluster, sailing down 
on Charleston ; 
And the people faint with striving, 
Worn with aimless, poor contriving. 
Tired at last of freedom's battle, heedless if 
't is lost or won. 

Shall now England pause for mercy 
When the frozen plains of Jersey, 
Tracked with blood, showed pathways trodden 
by bare feet of wounded men ? 
When the drained and tortured nation 
Holds no longer gold or ration 
To upbuild her fallen fortune, or to fill her 
veins again? 

Nay ! but striving swift and surely 
Now to gain the end securely, 
Stirlinof asks for reinforcements — volunteers 
to speed the cause ; 
And King George in mandate royal 
Speeds amid his subjects loyal. 
Calls for dutiful assistance to avenge his out- 
raged laws. 



HOW JR ELAND ANSWERED. 65 

In the name of law and order 
Sends across the Irish border 
To the wild and reckless spirits of whose dar- 
ing well he knows : 
" Ho ! brave fools who fight for pleasure, 
Here is chance for fame and treasure ; 
Teach those brazen Yankee devils the full 
force of Irish blows ! " 

Old John Parnell, cool and quiet, — 
Strange result on Celtic diet, — 
Colonel he of volunteers and well beloved 
chief of men, 
Reads the royal proclamation. 
Answers for himself and nation — 
Ye who heed the voice of honor list the ring- 
ing words again : — 

" Still, as in her ancient story, 
Ireland fights for right and glory ; 
Still her sons, through blood and danger, hold 
unstained their old renown; 
But, by God who reigneth o'er me, 
By the motherland that bore me. 
Never Irish gold or valor helps to strike a 
patriot down ! " 



66 /^OlV IRELAND ANSWERED. 



Thus 'mid themes immortal, gracious, 
Like that deed of young Horatius 
Or the gauntlet of defiance flung by Tell in 
Gessler's face. 
Let the Celt who claims as sireland 
The green hills of holy Ireland 
Place the speech of old John Parnell for the 
glory of his race. 



DECORATION DAY. 

Where is the Winter's scatli ? 
Where is the pain and wrath 

That scarred the earth with ruin and with 

blight, 
That wove its icy pall round day and night? 
Gone ! as the swiftly moving grace of Sum- 
mer 
Casts its fair shadow, luminous and sweet. 
While Nature, blithe to greet the jocund 
comer, 
Bursts into bloom before her welcome feet. 

Where be our loved and lost? 
Where are the tempest-tossed 

Souls of the brave, that passion's fiery 

breath 
Scorched on the battlefields of war and 
death ? 
Gone! And above their place a lasting glory 
Of shining deeds, a high, heroic part 



68 DECORA TION DA V. 

Written in light across their country's story, 
Written in love upon their country's heart. 

Shall the glad days return ? 
Shall the gray valleys burn 

With the fresh fires of resurrection, blown 
Downward with living breath from God's 
high throne. 
And our dead heroes, in cold silence sleeping. 
Wake to no pulse of life, no heavenly pow- 
ers 
That, with the spirit's strength all bounds o'er- 
leaping. 
Shall reach from their more glorious world 
to ours ? 

Nay! when we come to-day 
Laden with blooms of May, 

Crowning with music's breath and voice of 
song 

The graves that to their quiet rest belong, 
Is it not theirs, this mood of inspiration 

That lifts in prayer and praise each rever- 
ent head. 
While, proudly sad, the Genius of the Nation 

Kneels by the honored ashes of her dead ? 



DECORATION DAY. 69 

Seasons shall ebb and flow, 
Kingdoms shall come and go, 
Through the long cycles of the years to 

come, 
Ere the deep echoes of their fame be dumb. 
Still in the fertile soil of true hearts growing 
Their seed shall bourgeon for the day of 
need ; 
And the strong impulse from their lives up- 
flowing 
Still force its way to golden thought and 
deed. 

From their mute lips arise 
Strains that do scale the skies : 

The might of Love, that freely ventured all 
When awful Duty thrilled her trumpet-call ; 
Patience, in pain that burned the dross from 
merit ; 
Faith, in the heart when earthly hope grew 
dim; 
Death, as a choice, that we might life in- 
herit, — 
Such are the themes of their immortal 
hymn. 



70 DECORATION DAY. 

Fair is the thought, and just, 
That to their sacred dust 

Leads year by year in pious pilgrimage 

The blended ranks of childhood and of age. 
The grace of woman, bright with love's own 
splendor, 

The strength of manhood in its lusty prime, 
Moved by one impulse, generous and tender. 

To hold their memories green through cir- 
cling time. 

Country, or rank, or name. 
Naught do we ask of Fame. 

Whether they called themselves of North or 

South, 
Since naught they asked who faced the can- 
non's mouth. 
Since on both sides the patriot heart beat 
kindly. 
Since on both sides the balm of death did fall, 
Forgive the brothers' hands uplifted blindly, 
And with the love of brothers crown them 
all. 



WOMEN OF THE REVOLUTION. 

Heart of the patriot, touched by freedom's 

kindUng breath, 
Pouring its burning words from lips by passion 

fired ; 
Sword of the soldier, drawn in the awful face 

of death ; 
Bounteous pen of the scholar, tracing its theme 

inspired ; 
Wealth of the rich man's coffers, help of the 

poor man's dole ; 
Strength of the sturdy arm, and might of the 

statesman's fame, — 
These be fit themes for praise in days that 

tried the soul, 
But where in the list is room for mention of 

woman's name ? 

For hers are the virtues cast in finer and 

gentler mould ; 
In quiet and peaceful paths, her nature finds 

its scope. 



J 2 WOMEN OF THE REVOLUTION. 

Stronger in loving than hating ; fond where 
the man is bold, 

She works with the tools of patience and won- 
derful gifts of hope. 

Hers are the lips that kiss, the hands that 
nurse and heal. 

The tender voice that speaks in accents low 
and sweet. 

What hath her life to do with clash of musket 
and steel, 

Who sits at the gate of home, with children 
about her feet? 

Nay ! in the sturdy tree is there one sap at 

the root 
That mounts to the stately trunk to fill it with 

power and pride. 
And one for the tender branch that bourgeons 

in flower and fruit, 
Casting its welcome shadow on all that rest 

beside ? 
Nay ! when the man is called, the woman must 

swift arise, 
Ready to strengthen and bless, ready to follow 

and wait. 



WOMEN OF THE REVOLUTION. 73 

Ready to crush in her heart the anguish of 

tears and sighs, 
Reading the message of God in the blind 

decrees of Fate. 

So, in the days of the past, when Liberty 

raised her voice. 
Weak as a new-born babe in the cradle who 

wakes and calls, 
And the tremulous accents ran through the 

beautiful land of her choice, 
As into the heart of the mother the cry of her 

infant falls, — 
So did hand of the woman reach to hand of 

the man. 
Helping with comfort and love, steeling his 

own for the strife ; 
Till the calm of her steadfast soul through his 

wavering pulses ran. 
And the blow of the husband's arm was nerved 

from the heart of the wife. 

Wearing a homespun gown, or ruling with easy 

sway 
The world of fashion and pride, gilded by 

fortune's sun, 



74 WOMEN OF THE REVOLUTION. 

Rich or poor, who asks, as the record we 
read to-day? 

Lowly or great, who cares how the poor dis- 
tinctions run? 

Hallowed be every name in the roll of honor 
and fame. 

Since on hearthstone and field they kindled 
the sacred fire, 

Since with fostering breath they nurtured Lib- 
erty's flame. 

And set it aloft on the heights to which he- 
roes' feet aspire. 

Molly of Monmouth, staunch in the place of 

her fallen brave, 
Drowning the cry of defeat in the lusty roar of 

her gun ; 
Rebecca, the Lady of Buckhead, who, eager for 

freedom, gave 
Home of her heart to the burning, and smiled 

wdien the work was done ; 
Abigail Adams of Quincy, noble of soul and 

race, 
Reader of men and books, wielder of distaff 

and pen ; 



WOMEN OF THE REVOLUTION. 75 

Martha Wilson of Jersey, moving with courtly 

grace ; 
Deborah Samson, fighting side by side with 

the men : 



Frances Allen, the Tory, choosing the better 

part. 
Led by Ethan the daring to follow his glorious 

way; 
Elizabeth Zane of Wheeling, timid, yet strong 

of heart. 
Bearing her burden of powder through smoke 

and flame of the fray; — 
Each on the endless list, through length and 

breadth of the land. 
Winning her deathless place on the golden 

scroll of Time, 
Fair as in old Greek days the women of 

Sparta stand 
Linked with the heroes' fame and sharing their 

deeds sublime. 

Stronger than we of to-day in nerve and mus- 
cle and will. 

Braver than we of to-day the burden of women 
to bear. 



76 WOMEN OF THE REVOLUTION. 

Glad from their wholesome breasts soft mouths 

of children to fill, 
Holding the crown of the mother as highest 

that woman could wear ; 
Asking no larger sphere than that in which 

bravely shine 
Sunshine of home and heart, stars of duty and 

love ; 
Full of a purer faith that rested in Trust 

divine, 
And lifted their simple lives to glory of 

Heaven above ; 

Plain of speech and of dress, as fitted their 

age and place ; 
Meet companions for men of sterner creed and 

frame. 
Yet knowing the worth of a word, and fair 

with that old-time grace 
That perfumes like breath of a flower the page 

that holds their name. 
Trained within closer bounds to question issue 

and cause, — 
Small the reach of their thought to the modern 

student looks; 



WOMEN OF THE REVOLUTION. yj 

But the stream within narrower banks runs 

deeper by- Nature's laws, 
And theirs was a wiser lore than the shallow 

knowledge of books. 

Not in the Forum's seat and aping the wran- 
gler's course 

Did they strive with barbed word the target 
of right to reach; 

But moulding the will of their kind with elo- 
quent, silent force. 

Stronger than sting of the pen, louder than 
clamor of speech. 

Honor, they taught, and right, and noble cour- 
age of truth, 

Strength to suffer and bear in holy Liberty's 
need ; 

Framing through turbulent years and fiery 
season of youth 

Soul for the valor of thought, hand for the valor 
of deed. 

Well that with praise of the brave song of 

their triumph should blend ! 
Well that in joy of the land fame of their 

glory find part ! 



^S WOMEN OF THE REVOLUTION. 

For theirs is the tone of the chord that holds 

its full strength to the end, 
When music that dies to the ear yet lingers 

and sings in the heart. 
Letter and word may fade but still the spirit 

survives, 
Rounding in ages unborn each frail distorted 

plan; 
And fittest survival is this, when souls of 

mothers and wives 
Bloom in immortal deeds, through life of child 

and man ! 



FOR THE TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTI- 
ETH ANNIVERSARY OF THE CHARI- 
TABLE IRISH SOCIETY. 

Spirit of Charity ! Angel of Might ! 
Lift up our souls to the glory of light! 
Crown of the conqueror ! Hope of the weak ! 
Thine is the homage our full hearts would 
speak. 



*53^ 



Thou, too, O Native Land ! Thou whose dear 

name 
Pale hand of sorrow hath wedded to fame, 
List to the sons of thy tear-sprinkled sod, 
Blending the love of their country and God ! 

Erin, Beloved ! What might was in thee. 
When thy children were swept like the leaves 

from the tree. 
To move the sad hearts that in exile had flown 
To pity for sorrows more deep than their own ? 



80 THE CHARITABLE IRISH SOCIETY. 

Gift of rare grace didst thou hold from above, 
Strengthening thine own for their labor of love ; 
Teaching them, friendless, in trial to lend 
Strong hands of help for the need of a friend. 



Hymn we the triumph of mercy and grace. 
Lighting the future and past of our race ; 
No garland fairer may honor entwine 
Than charity claims for her mission divine. 

Valor's proud standard still droops over graves ; 
Glory may thrive 'mid the groaning of slaves, 
But who his brother loves — his place shall be, 
O Thou Omnipotent ! nearest to Thee. 



A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 

What maketh Christmas bright, 
Though earth be dreary? 
Truly I think 't is so 
Because God's angels know 
The rosy dawn is near to chase the night, 
And rest to soothe the weary. 

What maketh Christmas gay, 
Though heart be sorry ? 

Nay but I think because 
The star of glory draws 
Man's soul above, beyond the stormy way 
Of earthly care and worry ! 

What maketh Christmas peace. 
Though rage be striving ? 

A hush of seraphs' wings ; 
A heavenly choir that sings, 
Bending before the Babe that brings release 
From death and sin's contriving ! 



JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 

I. 

O FRIEND, withdrawn too soon from love and 

fame ! 
When on the peace of this fair Sabbath morn, 
Marring its joy with discord most forlorn, 
The priest's low voice did utter thy dear name, 
And ask that light perpetual might shine 
On those closed eyes of thine, — 
So sudden shut to all the warmth and glow 
Of glad, strong life below — 
Surely thy sturdy spirit must have known 
The wail that ran through all the people, prone 
Before the altar, on low bended knee. 
In prayer and tears for thee ! 



11. 

Red rose and white, the laurel and the rue, 
Shall blend in wreath for you; 
For the brave spirit, buoyant, unafraid 
That ever rose its brother man to aid 



JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 83 

In strife against the tyrant ; and to lift 
The poorest life to reach of freedom's gift. 
But not the proudest bloom 
They place upon thy tomb 
Can touch thy loyal soul as this long moan 
Slow wrung from hearts which claimed thee as 
their own. 



III. 

Not for thyself we weep — 

Too early fallen asleep, 

Before the dust and footsore of gray time 

Had wearied thee, and dimmed day's golden 

prime. 
For thou hast won the race 
Where longer lives do vainly sue for place; 
And evermore thy memories belong 
To native land and song. 
But for ourselves, who ne'er again may know 
In the long years below 
The hand's strong clasp, the smile so sudden 

bright, 
The cheery voice, the sunny eye's delight — 
Alas ! what use the haunting truth to flee — 
'T is for thyself we grieve, and only thee ! 



SONNETS AND EPIGRAMS. 



EASTER DAY. 

Thou fairest Feast that earth may ever know ! 
Of all her days most beautiful and best, 
Since Heaven doth open at thy glad behest, 
And man, immortal, spurn the clod below. 
Thou birthday of the soul ! When He doth 
show 
His costliest gift of sweet eternal rest, 
Of peace and joy supernal, to the breast 
That life's harsh storm doth buffet to and fro. 
More gracious art thou than the blessed night 
When angel choirs the hymn of praise began. 
And Bethlehem's star made glad the 
happy sod ; 
For joy in thee doth soar to purer height, — 
Since greater than the bliss of God made 
Man 
Is thine, which hails again the Man made 
God. 



RAIN IN THE MOUNTAINS. 

All day above the valley's circle fair, — 
While in the fields the broken grasses bowed 
Beneath the gray mist falling like a 
shroud, — 
Titans of earth fight titans of the air. 
Against the swarth browed mountains, gaunt 
and bare, 
The countless, formless squadrons of dark 

cloud 
Charge and retreat with crash of thunder 
loud. 
And, baffled, still the shock of onset dare. 
Now from the heights they win their stormy 
way. 
Above the rocky walls their banners stream ; 
And in the twilight of defeated day 

Torn by the lightning's sharp and fitful 
gleam, — 
I stand, with all beneath in ruin hurled, 
On one lone peak above a buried world. 



ISABELLA OF CASTILE. 

BORN APRIL 23, I45I. 
I. 

In that strange, steadfast light which men call 
fame, 
That backward through the halls of time doth 

flow, 
Piercing the shadows of the past to show 
The splendid ghosts of glory and of shame, 
One figure shines resplendent ; the w^hite flame 
Of centuries crowns the regal brow we know, 
The hands outstretched with jewels, and the 
glow 
That rests for aye on Isabella's name. 
Lo ! where she waits ; with high prophetic 
glance 
Bent like a star above the stormy main, 
The queenliest queen that dwells in old ro- 
mance, 
The proudest gem that decks the crown of 
Spain ; 



90 ISABELLA OF CASTILE. 

Whose lustre over sea and land hath flown 
To this new world which she did make her 
own. 

n. 

Around her move the dull and restless throng 
Of narrow lives ; the fierce and sordid race, 
With visions lowered from that loftier space 

Which makes the earth more glad than light 
or song ; 

The poor ambitions and the might of wrong; 
The craven fear that doubts the future's 

grace. 
While she, as one uplifted for a space. 

Stands like a vision, beautiful and strong. 

Dear doth man hold her for the zeal inspired 
That sped Columbus to his happy goal. 

But dearer that the might of virtue fired 
With such hot flame her pure and noble soul. 

That in its light the fairest life is shown. 

Her sex, her country, and her faith have known. 



IN MID OCEAN. 

Here surely yet the gods of old remain ! 
Lo ! Dian moves across the fields of air 
Calm visaged, pure, the crescent in her 
hair; 
Bright Venus too doth hold her joyous reign, 
Born of the rosy foam that dyes the main 
As Hesperus doth call the winds to 

prayer. 
And here where sea and sky do blend 
most fair 
Poseidon comes with all his lusty train; 
His plumy coursers, dashing through the 
night 
Do strike strange fires beneath each flying 
heel. 
As, white manes loose in swift imperious 
flight. 
All soundless through the realms of space 
they wheel; 
And far along the murmuring wave is borne 
The deep melodious music of his horn. 



A BEETHOVEN SYMPHONY. 

The glorious movement heaven-aspiring flies, 
Through the rapt silence of the listening 

hall; 
Fades from our sight the stern encircling 
wall 
And dreamland opens to our dreaming eyeSc 
Forgotten hopes and lost ambitions rise 
To shake the soul with happy longing. All 
Triumphant fancies hold the heart in thrall ; 
The future brightens under smiling skies. 
And thou, O Master ! On whose mighty brow 
The waves of thine own harmonies do break, 
High rising through the golden orbed 
spheres 
Like billows round some stately vessel's prow, — 
Do they no echo to thine ears awake. 

That reaches where thy listening spirit 
hears ? 



PALM SUNDAY AT SEA. 

It was the land that did Thee such despite 
O Christ, our Lord ! that welcomed Thee 

with palms, 
With loud hosannahs, and glad ringing 
psalms, 
Then sudden swept Thee on to Calvary's 
height ! 

Not thus disloyal was Thy constant sea ; 

That still doth hymn Thy glory and Thy 
praise 

As in the dawn of fair creation's days. 
And render unchecked homage unto Thee. 

That still doth sing Thy all embracing sway; 
Unto the silent watches of the stars. 
And morn fresh burst from out its silver 
bars. 
Proclaiming Thy glad power from day to day. 
And naming Thee the God whom we adore. 
Who is, and was, and shall be, evermore. 



NOVEMBER. 

To-day, amid the sobbing of the rain — 
While pale November with gaunt finger-tips 
Proffers the cup of doom to Nature's lips 

And, scowling, mocks her moan of bitter pain — 

I cannot mark the strife 'twixt life and death 
For joy of one fair thought that dwells with 

me; 
A sunny hillside sleeping by the sea. 
Made glad with bloom, and song-birds' voice- 
ful breath. 

Glad as a dream that fills a stormy night 
With peace and love, it stirs my waking 
hours 
With blue waves dancing in the golden light, 
With brown bees dipping deep in chaliced 
flowers, 
And one swift flight of swallows drifting by. 
Blown like a cloud across a summer sky. 



JUSTIN McCarthy. 

To most men Fortune grants a single boon, 
And looks upon her kindly task as done, 
Since, by such wealth, the prize of life is 
won, 
And Fame's bright garland cometh late or 
soon. 

But here is one whose happier lot hath known 
A fourfold gift, to make his fellows rich 
In thought and deed strung to high Honor's 
pitch. 

For he to Fancy's fairy realm hath flown, 

And won his knighthood ; he hath plucked the 

truth 
From History's masking, and laid bare her 

face; 
Renown hath found him in the Statesman's 

place ; 
The Patriot's heart is his in age as youth ; 
Choose for his wreath — and bid the emblem 

stand — 
The four-leafed Shamrock of his native land ! 



TO ONE BELOVED. 

I WILL not wish thee wealth, since wealth 
may bring 
But empty pleasure, false and hollow joys 
O'ertopping peace with rude and empty noise, 

Till life shall droop like bird on broken wing; 

Nor will I ask for years, since time may be 
A thing beyond all other strangely sad, 
A cursed gift to make men drunk or mad, 

With sordid care and pressing misery; 

But I would crave for thee a rarer boon; 
A spirit tuned to such serene accord 
— As one of those beloved of the Lord — 
That nought of all that cometh, late or soon. 
Be it of life or death, of joy or dole, 
Can fret the calm of thy most constant soul. 



THE GIFT OF VISION. 

"Once, in the dark, I knew a rose was near, 
Because her Ups had kissed the summer air 
And left their haunting perfume floating 
there. 

But when I fain would pluck it for my dear, 

Lo ! nought of all its sweet could I attain. 
But in its stead sharp thorns that sore did 

fret 
My eager hands, and force them to forget 

Their loving quest for smart and bitter pain. 

Shall I then cheat my fancy with the thought 
No flower was there within the prickly space, 
To add its lustre to my lady's grace, 

Or give me the fair prize my longing sought ? 
Nay! for behind its thorn the rose must be. 
If we, who search so blindly, could but see ! " 



MORNING IN the; CITY. 

A PALE blue sky, suffused with tender light ; 

A chirp of sparrows underneath tall eaves ; 

A veiHng mist of newly budded leaves 
That softly screen the city's homes from sight ; 

A subtle incense in the quiet air, 

Which so uplifts the sense of common things 
That life soars upward as if borne on wings. 

And every thought becomes a silent prayer. 

O promise fairer than the perfect day 
Of golden summer ! Thou divine unrest 
That meets its twin desire in every breast 
This happy morning ! Teach our lives the way 
To learn of thee thy secret sweet and old, 
The Midas touch that turns all dross to gold. 



HOSTAGES. 

All men must pay some ransom unto Fate 
For this strange boon of living. Blest is he 
Who with some loss of gold or land goes 
free ; 

Nor yet unhappy is his fair estate 

On whom kind death most tenderly doth wait 
To take his treasure. Larger swells the fee 
He pays to Fortune, from whom love doth 
flee, 

Or change unto the scowling face of hate. 

More sad than these, his darkly mournful lot 

Whose hand the clasp of friendship hath for- 
got; 
But deadliest price of all the soul must pay. 

Which for some lure of earthly power or pride 

Hath cast its heritage of heaven aside, 
And for such gaud hath given itself away. 



NANTASKET. 

O THOU more fair than fairer scenes to me ! 
Where the long curve of silver shining sand, 
Like some slim arm stretched outward from 
the land, 
Doth woo the soft embracing of the sea. 
Where green hills lift their sunny uplands free 
Above the tall white cliffs, that faithful stand 
As sentinels to guard the virgin strand 
In lonely, lonesome beauty ! Graciously 
About thee dreams of love and peace do lie ; 
Of bright days passed in sweet enduring 
rest; 
Of happy thought, no wave of grief hath 
drowned ; 
Outside, the winter's stormy wings may fly, 
But never droop their shadow on thy breast, 
O golden shore ! with fadeless summer 
crowned. 



IN ANSWER. 

Dearest my love ! You ask me which were 
best : 
Thus to be torn by such sharp lance of pain 
As rends two lives which may not meet 
again, 
Or never to have tasted love's unrest, 
— That woful gladness burning in the breast 
Which sweeter is than all earth's richer gain. 
What need to question, while there doth re- 
main 
A single thought to do the heart's behest. 
Is earth so wide we cannot bridge its space ? 
Is heaven so high we cannot scale its bars 
And hold our fond communion face to face 

Beyond the silent portal of the stars ? 
This is proud grief. But O the famished 

heart ! 
The poor, pale joy, had we two dwelt apart .' 



SALVE ! 

Thou pulse of joy ! whose throb beats time 
For daisied field, for blossoming spray, 
Set all the prose of life to rhyme ! 
To dance of leaf, and song-bird's chime 
Ring in the May! 



CONTRADICTION. 

The flush of rage was on her cheek, 

And scorn flashed lightning from her eye, — • 

But trembling lips refused to speak, 

And love, though mute, gave wrath the lie. 



SEQUExNCE. 

There 's not a breath of Summer's joy and 
glory 
But whispers of the Autumn twihght near ; 
There 's not a page of Winter's saddest story 
But turns to meet the dawning of the 

year. 
Thus fear doth wait on hope and hope on 
fear. 



KISMET. 

In golden lands of sunshine and of love, 
One sported, glad as bright-winged birds in 
flight; 
From furrowed seas, while storm winds crashed 
above. 
One lifted hopeless eyes to meet the night. 

Lo ! how the gods do cheat our human 
powers 
Of skill to read the future from the past ! 
Death, like a serpent, bit among the flowers, 
Life rode triumphant on the whirlwind's 
blast ! 



AT THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. 



THE LITTLE SAILOR KISS. 

O KISSES they are plenty 

As blossoms on the tree ! 
And be they one or twenty 
They 're sweet to you and me ; 
And some are for the forehead, and some are 

for the lips, 
And some are for the rosy cheeks, and some 

for finger-tips. 
And some are for the dimples, — but the 

sweetest one is this, 
When the bonny, bonny bairnie gives his little 
sailor kiss ! 

I will kiss this sailor, 
This sailor lad so true ! 

1 would not kiss a nailer, 
A carpenter, or tailor. 

But I will kiss this sailor 
With bonny eyes of blue j 
With a sonsy smile and yellow hair to snare 
the sunshine in. 



no THE LITTLE SAILOR KISS. 

With a laughing mouth, and a rosy cheek, and 

a dimple in the chin ; 
Three years old, and a heart of gold — ^Ah! 

who would care to miss 
The chance to meet my darling with his little 

sailor kiss. 

For then the tiny fingers 

Creep, pinching, to your face 
With a touch that thrills and lingers ; 

And the rosy palms find place 
To come pressing and caressing with soft and 

gentle touch. 
Not teasing you too little, and yet not over 

much. 
While full of love and laughter the pretty blue 

eyes glow 
And red lips tightly puckered pout roguishly 

below. 
O tell me, ye who know it, is there in the 

world such bliss, 
As when the bonny bairnie gives his little 

sailor kiss ! 



THE NAME OF MARY. 

Mary, we dared to call our little maid 
Because upon the Virgin's day she came ; 
O Gracious Mother ! lend thy holy aid 
To give her life the beauty of her name! 



A SONG WITHOUT WORDS. 

" Play us a tune," cried the children : 

" Something merry and sweet 
Like birds that sing in the summer; 

Or nodding tips o' the wheat 
Dancing across the meadows 

While the warm sun burns and glows, — 
Till we fancy we smell in Winter 

The breath of a sweet June rose." 

" Play us a tune," said the Mother : 

" Something tender and low, 
Like a thought that comes in the Autumn 

When leaves are ready to go ; 
When the fire on the hearth is lighted, 

And we know not which is best — 
The long bright evenings coming, 

Or the long bright days at rest." 

And the dear little artist bending 

Over the swaying bow. 
Drew tones so merry and gladsome 

And tones so soft and low 



A SONG WITHOUT WORDS. I13 

That we scarce could tell, who listened, 
Which song had the sweetest words, — 

The one that sang of the fireside, 
Or the one that sang of the birds. 



HELD IN SIGHT. 

Far down the long and busy street 

A little form appears, 
So small as yet no eye may trace 
The features of the darling face, 

Bright with its six glad years. 

No eye save mine, that keen with love 

Speeds forth its mark to find ; 
Unswerved by tumult deep and loud, 
By hurrying feet and surging crowd. 
That well its search might blind. 

Clearly, as if it stood alone 

Upon some wind-swept lea. 
Or lifted boldly into sight 
Above the crest of some brave height, 

The dear wee shape I see. 

Unknown, unmarked amid the throng, 

His absence who would note ? 
Yet sun and moon and stars in flight 



HELD IN SIGHT. 1 1 5 

Less dark would leave the black, blind night 
Above sad earth to float, — 



Than on my soul the shade would fall, 

If two small pattering feet 
That on the crowded pathway stray, 
Should sudden droop and turn away, 

From out life's busy street. 

Dear God ! when sometimes fears oppress 

Lest Thy keen glance decline 
Its search for some poor, drifting soul, — 
The doubt forgive, the fear control ; 
Is our love more than Thine ? 



THE FIRST STEP. 

To-night as the tender gloaming 

Was sinking in evening's gloom, 
And only the glow of the firelight 

Brightened the dark'ning room, 
I laughed with the gay heart-gladness 

That only to mothers is known. 
For the beautiful brown-eyed baby 

Took his first step alone. 

Hurriedly running to meet him 

Came trooping the household band. 
Joyous, loving, and eager 

To reach him a helping hand ; 
To watch him in silent rapture, 

To cheer him with happy noise, 
My one little fair-faced daughter 

And four brown romping boys. 

Leaving the sheltering arms 
That fain would bid him rest 

Close to the love and the longing, 
Near to the mother's breast, 



THE FIRST STEP. WJ 

Wild with laughter and daring, 

Gleefully flying from me, 
He stumbled across through the shadows 

To rest at his father's knee. 

Baby, my dainty darling, 

Stepping so brave and bright 
With flutter of lace and ribbon 

Out of my arms to-night. 
Helped in thy pretty ambition 

With tenderness blessed to see, 
Sheltered, upheld, and protected, — 

How will the last step be? 

See, we are all beside you. 

Urging and beckoning on ; 
Watching lest aught betide you 

Till the safe near goal is won ; 
Guiding the faltering footsteps 

That tremble and fear to fall, — 
How will it be, my darling. 

With the last sad step of all? 

Nay ! Shall we dare to question ; 

Knowing that One more fond 
Than all our tenderest loving. 

Will guide the weak feet beyond ! 



1 1 8 THE FIRST STEP. 

And knowing beside, my dearest, 

That whenever the summons, 't will be 

But a stumbling step through the shadow, 
Then rest — at the Father's knee. 



TO A LITTLE LAD. 

Hey Niddy Noddy ! 
What is this I see ! 
Vowing he is no' for bed, 
Tho' his bonny drowsy head 
Tosses up an' tosses down 

Like a ship at sea! 
Winking an' blinking 

Eyes in shadow creep, 
Straying an' playing 

Hide an' seek wi' sleep; 
Whiles the flying laughter slips 

Up his face astray ; 
Whiles the dimples round the lips 
Fleet and fly away; 
Not a notion gude or bad 
Is in that curly head, — 
Hoot ! my little silly lad 
Off wi' ye to bed! 

Ho Niddy Noddy ! 

And are ye waking yet ! 



120 TO A LITTLE LAD. 

Sitting there without a word, 
Gaping like a hungry bird, 
Is na that a weary sight 
To make a body fret ? 
Mundering an' blundering 

Along his sleepy way, 
Lowering an' glowering 

Wi' nought at all to say; 
Daur ye now to tell a fib ! 

Say it is na late, 
Wi* yon little lonesome crib, 
Waiting for its mate ; 
Mickle sense, or good or bad, 

Is in that curly head ; 
But an' ye 'd mak it more, my lad. 
Off wi' ye to bed ! 



A VALENTINE. 

To the Sweetest, 
The Dearest, 
The Truest, 
The Best; 

To a voice that is sweet as a bird's in the 
nest ; 

To a cheek like the flush on the leaf of a 
rose ; 

To a dear little, tip-tilted love of a nose; 

To lips that have gathered the glory of bloom 

From crimson carnations deep spiced with per- 
fume ; 

To eyes that are dark as the beauty of night, 

Yet filled with star-splinters of arrowy light ; 

To a smile that 's as glad as the laughter of 
dawn 

When the veil of the darkness is slowly with- 
drawn ; 

To a heart — but what symbol that is not di- 
vine 

Can I choose for the heart of my dear valen- 
tine ? 



122 A VALENTINE. 

And what words can I frame that will do my 

behest, 
That will bear all my love, with a lover's fond 
zest, 

To the Dearest, 

The Sweetest, 
The Truest, 
The Bestl 



THE WEE THING! 

Oh ! Bairnies hae I mony 

That rin aboot the hause; 
An' ane is fair an' gentle, 

Saft steppit as a mause — 
An' ane is bauld and bonnie, 

Wi' blue een glintin' braw; 
But the sonsy, stumblin' wee thing 

Is dearest o' them a' ! 

'T is weel I loe my Jessie, 

Puir bud sae douce and sweet, — 
Wi' smile that maks me gladsome, 

An' voice that gars me greet ! 
An' weel I loe blithe Donald, 

An' Jack so gey an sma' — 
But the hirplin, toddlin' wee thing 

Is dearest' o' them a' ! 

There 's Sandy straught an' winsome, 

Sae strappin' for his age, 
Fu' taller than the gudeman. 

An' airnin' manly wage, — 



124 THE WEE THING I 

Eh ! but the tears do bleer my een 

When on his face they fa' — 
But still that fechless wee thing 



I daurna think it ower 

For fear it wad be sin ; 
I daurna let the lips spak oot 

The thocht that bides within; 
I pray the Lord baith nicht an' morn, 

That gude may each befa', 
But the pray'r that names my wee thing 

Is the pray 'r that leads them a' ! 



LOST. 

Lost ! Lost ! Lost ! 

A baby with soft brown hair, 

Dimpled and fair as a rose, 

From crown of his head to his toes 
Lovely beyond compare ; 
White was his gown and sweet, 

With a beautiful sash of red. 
The loveliest shoes on his feet. 

The loveliest hat on his head ; 
And such a glow on his cheek. 
Like a maple leaf touched with frost, - 
No wonder my heart grows weak 
When I think of the baby I lost! 

Lost ! Lost ! Lost ! 

O surely some one must know 
To what land sunny and bright 
Glowing with love and delight 

The dear lost babies go ! 

If it were not fair to see, 
Full to the brim with joy, 



126 LOST. 

Do you think he would stay from me, 

My beautiful baby boy ; 
Or that all the others would go, 
Like leaves by the winter tossed. 
From the mothers who loved them so 
To the land of the babies lost! 

Lost ! Lost 1 Lost ! 

They have left me here in his place 
A boy with a trousers new, 
And a jersey jacket of blue, 

And a dear little peach bloom face. 

He 's brave and bonny and brown ; 

He 's swift as the wind, and tall ; 

He can run all over the town ; 

He owns a bat and a ball ; 

He has a pocket and knife ; 

He can talk when his will is crossed, - 

I love him as much as my life, 

But — I want the baby I lost ! 



THE FIRST BATTLE. 

Beneath the sunshine of his eyes, 

A fine resolve is glinting ; 
A frown across the smooth brow lies, 

Of strife and courage hinting. 

For face to face to-day have met, 

In unfamiliar courses, 
The strange, mysterious alphabet. 

And my small hero's forces. 

He looks ; he strives ; a puzzled pain 
Amid the dimples showing ; 

Then tugs again with might and main, 
— Till victory's ardor glowing 

Runs up its red flag to his cheek; 

Down fall the broken fetters ; 
And lo ! with pride he cannot speak 

The first three conquered letters ! 

Ah ! winsome little hero mine ! 
To-day in strife enlisted, 



128 THE FIRST BATTLE. 

With cheeks aglow and eyes ashine 
For one small foe resisted, — 

We who have grown so sadly wise, 
Who smile in fond derision, — 

How do we know but God's clear eyes. 
From wider fields of vision. 

May watch our battle fields of life 
With tender, loving sweetness; 

Yet read in triumph, as in strife. 
The same poor incompleteness. 



IN LIGHTER MOOD. 



AN ENIGMA. 

From the French of Nadaud. 

Kind and cruel is her play, 

Fierce and gentle both is she, 
Fickle as the winds astray, 

Constant as the heavens be ; 
Her caprices without number 

Every shape and color take, 
Sometimes joyous, sometimes sombre, 

Smiles and tears together wake. 
Child she is, and woman too ; 

Naught more mild, or harsh, can be, 
— What ! you think I speak of you ? 

Nay ! I 'm talking of the Sea. 

Now 't is troubled, now 't is calm ; \ 
Now it soothes like song of birds ; 

Often angry, then like balm 

Lisping sweet and loving words. 

Devil 'tis and angel bright, 
Now inviting, now repelling. 



132 AN ENIGMA. 

Its fair face and blue eyes light 

Woo men down to death's cold dwelling; 
Naught more mild, or harsh, can be. 

Wound it gives, but healing too; 
— What ! you think I mean the Sea ? 

Dearest, nay ! I speak of you ! 



A CHARACTER SKETCH. 

She smiled, then frowned, then shook her head 

And scowled beneath her lashes ; 
A dozen pearly tears she shed, 

Then laughed in sunny flashes ; 
She pouted, flirted, scolded, cried, — 

And still you could not blame her, 
For although forty moods she tried, 

Yet every one became her. 

She gossiped in the sweetest words, 

Like south winds that astray go ; 
She sang as sing the summer birds, 

She shrieked like a virago ; 
One day she dressed in gauzy green, 

The next wrapped ermine round her; 
For oh ! she was a saucy quean. 

And so her lovers found her ! 

Sometimes such peace was in her glance 
'T was like a dream of Sundays ; 



134 ^ CHARACTER SKETCH. 

Sometimes her eyes would look askance, 
As dark as stormy Mondays ; 

She 'd scorch you like a torrid flame, 
She 'd freeze you — if you 'd let her ; 

For April was the lady's name, 
Perchance you may have met her ! 



CONSTANTIA INCONSTANS. 

Inconstant, did you call the maid, 
Because she turned her face away 

And to your friend her smiles displayed? 

Inconstant, did you call the maid ? 

Nay? but in constant charm arrayed 
She shines like yon revolving ray. 

Inconstant, did you call the maid, 
Because she turned her face away ? 



WITH A SILKEN PURSE. 

If this were a fairy gift, dear, 

And I were a fairy too, 
The purse should never be empty 

The whole of the long year through. 

The longest summer day, dear. 

And the longest winter night, 
The purse should be always heavy 

And your heart be always light. 

But the fairies have flown away, dear, 

Alas ! that the words are true. 
And there's nothing to fill the silken mesh 

But the gold of my love for you. 



CAFl^ NOIR. 

I 'd be remembered, not alone 

In those rare moments when the sense 

Of the divine in her hath grown 

To thoughts all radiant and intense ; 

But in that tender human mood, 

That comes alike to saint and sinner, 

When homely happy thoughts intrude 

— Just after dinner. 

'T is then when life is at its ease, 

The body in its softest raiment. 
No pain to fret, no doubts to tease 

With thought of copy, debt, or payment. 
That like her coffee, clear and strong, 

While care's dull clouds grew thin and thin- 
ner, 
I'd wish kind fate would bring me on 

— Just after dinner. 



TO A VERY LEARNED LADY WITH 
A KNITTING BASKET. 

Quoth she, — 't was in the golden haze 
Of summer time, when bees were flitting 

And earth was singing roundelays, — 

Quoth she : " I fain would study knitting." 

In forty tongues the girl could speak, 
Mild as she looked in sunshine sitting ; 

Read Spanish, Gaelic, Latin, Greek, 
But ah! she did not know her knitting. 

Philosophies she'd scampered through 
To fit her mind for fine hair splitting ; 

Euclid and poets both she knew; 
— How could she have forgotten knitting! 

Go, little basket, to her shrine; 

Speak to her heart in accents fitting; 
And let the happy task be thine 

To teach her pretty hands their knitting. 



TO A VERY LEARNED LADY. 139 

Breathe — if a Basket can — this rune : 
I love her, though I thus am twitting ; 

And let some thought of me keep tune 
With every stitch she sets in knitting. 



ON A THERMOMETER. 

This is not, as it seems to be, 

A simple Thermo Meter ; 
Its mission is for you and me 

Of nobler use and sweeter. 

Perhaps in measuring Fahrenheit 
'T will frisky be and arch, dear ; 

Mark zero for a summer night 
And burning heat in March, dear. 

But if you want the temperature 
Of something holier, higher, — 

Of atmospheres more fine and pure, 
Than our poor frost and fire. — 

By day or night, in sun or rain, 
'T will always tell you true, dear. 

The warmth of heart between us twain, 
And my fond love for you, dear. 



A CONUNDRUM. 

For Philip's heart one summer bright 
I saw two well-bred maidens fight 

— You might not think it from their air 
So blithesome, frank, and debonaire, 
But I, from wisdom's dear-bought height 
Could read the pretty game aright, 
And oft amid their laughter light 

I asked myself — "Now! dark, or fair? 
Which one ? 

Here are his wedding cards to-night ; 

But ere I scan the paste-board white 
I fain would try, did I but dare, 
To guess what name is written there. 

And read, by gift of second sight, 
Which won 1 



PHILOSOPHY. 

The saucy wind may take my hat, 
And send it rolling far and free. 

.1 need not lose my head for that; 

The saucy wind may take my hat, 

I shall not run, for I 'm too fat — 
Some other fool shall run for me 1 

The saucy wind may take my hat 
And send it rolling far and free. 



INDIAN SUMMER. 

She should be bland and debonair, 
With dark eyes full of misty splendor, 

Wear jewels in her dusky hair, 
And speak in accents deep and tender ; 

Her robes of purple and of gold 
Should glad the sense of each new comer. 

Her gait confess the gods of old — 
This Indian summer. 

Alas ! she 's dressed in russet-gray ! 
She 's pinched and cold from toe to shoulder ; 

Shrewish as wench on washing day, 
Her sharp breath chills the rash beholder ; 

A shrilling voice, a jerky walk, 
A glance to make dumb men grow dumber, — 

Good heavens ! I 'd like to tomahawk 
T/iis Indian — summer. 



A DEFINITION. 

A Palimpsest ! Yes, that *s the name 
For this sweet heart of lovely Molly. 
But every imprint is the same — 
Another screed of love, and folly. 



A PHOTOGRAPH. 

She hath a smile is half divine, 

So brilliant and so tender; 
In dusky light her dark eyes shine 

Like stars in midnight splendor ; 
And dusky too her falling hair, 

That hides the rich cheek, glowing 
With blushes such as dawn might wear 

When buds of June are blowing ! 

She hath a form that might compare 

With Hebe's fabled glory; 
A step as light; a joyous air 

That tells her happy story ; 
Her voice is sweet, but sweeter far 

The soul its tones informing. 
With hope to drive dull grief afar, 

And love that quiets storming. 

She hath a mind which hap'ly blends 
Grave sense and fancies lighter ; 



148 A PHOTOGRAPH. 

The root of deepest musing ends 

In thought like liowers, but brighter; 

Her sprightly wit doth temper cares 
With gladder touch and finer, 

Till life doth trip to livelier airs, 
And leave its sombre minor. 

She hath — but wherefore try to reach 

Fit emblems for her sweetness, 
Or torture faint and broken speech 

To mirror her completeness ! 
Her name ? her state ? Ah ! wherefore pain 

My skill in necromancy ! 
She dwells in my Chateau in Spain, 

She is not fact, but Fancy ! 



MARCH ! 

Hie! with your blustering! 

Ho! with your flustering! 
Fie on you, thinking of frighting us, March ! 

Scowl if you dare now. 

Little we care now, 
Whether you 're loving or slighting us, March ! 
Sure when your brow is all dark with the 

frown 
Sullen and black, and the tears dropping down, 

Knowing you well now, 

Faith we can tell now, 
There's little cause to be grieving us, March. 

Undher your whining 

Your blue eyes are shining — 
You thief of the world for deceiving us, March ! 

Bolder an' bolder now, 

Turn the cold shoulder now. 
Snowing and blowing — O shame on you, March! 

But it 's your nature, 

You obstinate crayture, 
I'll not be throwing the blame on you, March! 



1 50 MARCH. 

Sometimes, in spite of the wrath in your eye, 
The smile on your lip gives bad temper the lie ; 
An' shaming the growl in your voice when you 

speak, 
The dimples of merriment dance in your 
cheek, — 

O but you 're cute now, 

Hiding the truth now. 
Cutting your capers and grieving us, March. 

Scolding and pleasing, 

Warming and freezing. 
You thief of the world for deceiving us, March ! 

Up from their narrow beds, 
Raising their purty heads. 
Though your wet blankets you throw on them, 
March ! 

See the small posies now. 
Lifting their noses now. 
Sniffing the sunbeams aglow on them^ March. 
Mighty an' proud as the king on his throne. 
There 's a sweet coaxin' way that you have of 

your own. 
Like a play actor taking the winter's dark 

part, 
With the smile of the summer asleep in his 
heart ; — 



MARCH. 1 5 I 

So you may blow now, 

Rain, hail, an' snow now, 
Little your tricks will be grieving us, March ! 

We know your way noW; 

Sure it's all play now, 
You thief of the world for deceiving us, March ! 



A GROUP OF MEXICAN POEMS. 



GUADALUPE. 

Once Cupid's eyes were clear, 

Open and kind, 
But alas ! you^ my dear, 
He chanced to find; 
Only one glance he gave, — 
Since then, who paints the knave 
^ Must paint him blind. 

Miguel Ulloa. 



ELENA. 

If, for beautiful Helen of old, 

Chosen by Paris, a city fell 
And heroes of grace spent life and gold, — 

How many Troys under Fate's grim spell 
Would perish by fire and sword for thee 
If each one who sees thee might Paris be ! 

AUGUSTIN Lazo. 



ROSARIO.i 

Many a beautiful brown girl splendid, 

With eyes of the night and morning blended, 

Springs from the soil of Vera Cruz ; 
But amid all the loveliest faces, 
Show me but one of your height and graces, 
If but the gods would let me choose. 

Exquisite rose of perfection ! Soon 

You can no longer hide ; and then 
When your bright face on the balcony shines 
Under your window will hang, as at shrines. 
Rosaries, made from the hearts of men. 

Manuel Flores. 
1 Rosario, means also a rosary. 



JOSEFINA. 

From the chalice of her lips, 
Perfume like a nectar slips ; 
And her accents, pure and fine, 
Fill the heart with joy divine. 

In her eyes benignant lie 
Glories of the sunset sky, 
That in radiant splendor preach 
Eloquence that passeth speech. 

If her beauty could but stand 
Mirrored by an artist's hand, 
Or inspire a j)oet's theme, 
Man would think it but a dream. 

LUI-S ALliA. 



VALENTINA. 

When he should chant thy wondrous grace 
Dumb would the singer's music be ; 
If he should strive to picture thee 

Never a line could artist trace. 

For, of a soul so fair as thine, 

How could the semblance e'er be true, 
If the glad brush that painted you 

Had not been dipped in tints divine, 

Or if the poet's lyre had known 

No tones save those of earth alone. 

Miguel Ulloa. 



AMELIA. 

Earth was a bower of roses rare and pale, 

And heaven a starry sea ; 
Through the soft shadow sang the nightingale 

His wondrous melody. 
'T was springtime, and the dewy dawn was 
wet, — 

When from its dreaming stirred, 
The flower's soul in sweetness rising met 

The bright soul of the bird ; 
And from that kiss thy loveliness was born : 

Fair shrine that doth enclose 
The song bird's voice, the gladness of the 
morn. 

The perfume of the rose. 

Al'RELIO GaRAY. 



CONCHA.^ 

Above the white foam and the azure sea 

A gleaming shell doth float, 
And the bright sun that glows resplendently 

Kisses the fairy boat. 

The world it glads with beauty does not know 

The treasure in its breast, — 
The precious pearl, that radiant as the snow 

Within its heart doth rest. 

Sweet Concha ! on life's sea thy beauty rides 

And man's applause doth win; 
But only we who love thee know it hides 

A fairer pearl within. 

Luis G. Ortiz. 

1 Concha is at once the name of a shell, and the di- 
minutive of Concepcion. 



MARIA. 

If, mid the shades on high 

They should meet, nor know her name, 
" Beatrice ! " would Dante exclaim ; 

Leonora ! " would Tasso sigh. 



VIRGINIA. 

Not hers are her graces, 
To Gods they belong! 
From Venus her charms; 
Love lent her his arms ; 
The Muse who presides 
Over harmony's tides 
Hath shared with her gladly the sceptre of 
song. 

Morales, the Master, 

Doth list and rejoice ; 
Says : " More than Ulysses' 
My fear and my bliss is; 
He heard but the ringing 
Of Sirens' sweet singing ; 
I know the full charm of Virginia's voice." 

AuRELio Garay. 



AN ANSWER. 

" And \vhat is Poesy ? " She said, 
As laughin^'ly she questioned me; 

"The smile upon thy lips; the red 
Ripe bloom upon thy cheek so fair ; 
The glinting of thy golden hair; 
The light of morning in thy face ; 
Thy soul, thy form, thy moving grace ; — 
Thou! Thou thyself art Poesy." 

Miguel Ulloa. 



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